


What Matters Most

by Impressioniste



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impressioniste/pseuds/Impressioniste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The unexpected pleasures of domestic partnership.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Matters Most

It was not long after Anders moved in with him that Garrett Hawke realized he was in for a great deal more than he originally bargained for.

First, there were the feathers. They were everywhere; stray, loose feathers all over the house, on the furniture, in their bed, in the dog’s mouth… Sometimes he nearly did believe that Anders must be molting to be losing feathers from his pauldrons at such an alarming rate. The truth of the matter, however, was that Anders was simply a terrible seamstress, and feathers were not exactly the easiest things to sew into the fabric of a threadbare mantle.

Then, there were the manifestos. It seemed like every day there were more half-used sheets of paper strewn about the house. They were on the desk, in the drawers, stuffed inside the pages of his books, crumpled up and tossed haphazardly on the bedroom floor, scattered in and around the fireplaces, even tucked into the pockets of his clothing. He found some in the larder one morning and had simply pressed his forehead to the wall, shaking it gently in dismay. Some days, Orana spent a good, full hour just walking through the rooms and picking up scraps of paper like a little bird following a trail of seeds.

But that was hardly the end of it.

There were the dirty, torn socks that had been clearly mended several times over—left in the bed, or on the floor. There were the muddy, wet prints all over the freshly cleaned rugs from the boots Anders seldom went without, caked with filth from the Undercity. There were the unfortunate bloodstains from where his coat brushed against the furniture after a particularly nasty day in the clinic, and the lingering scent of the sewers where Anders spent the majority of his time, that never really went away. There were the breadcrumbs left on the desk, or table, or floor, when Anders actually remembered to feed himself without being reminded.

And then there were things of a more… personal nature.

It was not always easy sharing a bed with a spiritually-possessed Grey Warden apostate, he had come to find out, rather quickly. A good night’s sleep seemed to be impossible for Anders to comprehend, let alone indulge in, between his refusal to allow himself to slip too far into the Fade, lest Justice take over without warning while he slept, and the taint coursing through his blood, sending images of darkspawn and the archdemon to haunt him if he ever did manage to close his eyes for more than a few moments, in addition to the fact that he had been forced to learn to sleep lightly and with one eye open while on the run from the templars.

Sometimes, Anders simply tossed and turned for hours; other times he actually got up from the bed in a half-conscious daze and stumbled around the room until he made enough of a commotion to wake Hawke, who would steer him gently back into bed. There were times when Anders would actually manage to fall asleep for a few minutes or hours, and then suddenly wake, sitting bolt upright, flinging Hawke away from him, thrashing around while whimpering with fear or sometimes even screaming in terror until the realization that he was awake finally hit him, allowing Hawke to put his arms around him and soothe him back to rest, at least, even if not to sleep again.

Hawke had not been expecting any of that, especially not while still basking in the afterglow of their first night together, but he loved Anders, and he knew that Anders was completely in love with him. That was what was important, so they made it work.

Orana frequently chased after Anders, rag in hand, when he tromped around the house in his mud-splattered boots, attacking the stains on the carpet before they could fully set in. The dog did his part to help with the cleanup too, finishing the left-behind crusts of Anders’ bread or lapping up the crumbs until there was not a trace left. And the feathers and the manifestos and the socks… well. Hawke couldn’t find it in him to get worked up about it, really. He noticed, he smiled to himself, he sighed and shook his head, and it matter precious little after that.

Hawke tracked his fair share of muddy footprints on the rugs, and left his fair share of bloodstains on the furniture after a particularly nasty night chasing bandits through Lowtown. He scattered his share of gritty sand around the house after running up and down the Wounded Coast all day, shaking it out of his clothes and his hair and his beard and into the carpet without really even thinking about it.

Anders healed him when he was hurt, cared for him when he was sick, reminded him when he was working too hard for everyone else and not taking enough time for himself.

Hawke also had his fair share of nightmares, and when he woke, shaking and covered with a sheen of cold sweat in the darkness after dreaming of Lothering, or his sister, or the Deep Roads, or his mother, Anders was there beside him to hold his hand, kiss his cheek, stroke his hair, and soothe the pain and fear away with quiet whispers and soft touches, with the simple reality of his presence gently reminding him that he wasn’t alone.

And now, when they went to bed at night, Hawke made sure that Anders was tucked tightly and safely in his arms before he fell asleep, held close to his chest so that he could not accidentally stumble out of bed without waking both of them, and so that maybe, just maybe, the beating of Hawke’s heart against Anders’ back and the strength of his arms wrapped around his chest could keep at least a few of the nightmares at bay.

Sometimes it truly seemed to help, and other times Hawke truly could not tell if it did him any good at all, but whether or not it worked to assuage the nightmares, what mattered most was the frank, adoring, grateful look in Anders’ eyes every morning when he woke to find Hawke still there beside him, still holding him, still _loving_ him—and the fact that Hawke felt exactly the same.


End file.
